Page 13 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Another gust of wind howled its concurrence.
He’d also had Helia set up in the main suites, in rooms directly opposite his. All he need do was cross the hall, insert a key he absolutely would have, and let himself into Helia’s chambers.
And suddenly, being anywhere else in this household, as long as it was far, far away from wicked Lord Wingrave, won out as the far safer option.
With that, Helia hurried from her temporary rooms, drew the door panel closed noiselessly, and tiptoed away.
The minute she’d put that hall behind her, she broke out into a full run.
Click.
His left ear may have been useless, but Wingrave never allowed that particular organ to face a door or person he spoke to. Following his illness, however, his right ear, not unlike Wingrave himself, had found an even greater strength.
It was how he heard the minute Miss Wallace opened her door.
She’d escaped.
If he had a soul worth wagering, he’d have bet the Devil himself Miss Wallace intended to fleece him and, at last, be on her way. Likely with his mother’s silver.
Another man may have raised a hue and cry or raced after her out of fear she intended to take something of his.
Not Wingrave.
Naked as the day he’d been born and lying at the center of his four-poster bed, he smiled with a hunter’s delight.
When he’d agreed to let her spend the night, he’d known what she intended. As poor as any waif in the streets and bedraggled like one, too, she was no more the daughter of some dead earl than Wingrave was God himself.
No, the prospect of catching Miss Wallace in that willful act of taking something that belonged to him had titillated and left him filled with an insatiable lust.
For one so young and so innocent and chaste, she’d displayed a temerity and resolve that tantalized.
No one had ever dared challenge him. But she had, and instead of being incensed with rage, he’d been inflamed by a fierce desire to lay claim to her, to dominate her.
He relished the chase; it made the eventual capture all the more satisfying.
Wingrave stood.
He didn’t bother with a shirt, just grabbed his trousers from the floor.
After he’d jammed his legs inside, he drew the garment up, tugged at his cock, and adjusted himself so he could properly close his placard.
Then Wingrave set out in pursuit.
He didn’t bother to collect a candle to light the way—his eyes no longer needed adjusting to the inky black of Horace House at night. No, to carry a flame would alert her of his approach and spoil the hunt.
He allowed her to expand her lead.
All the while, he trailed along the halls at a leisurely pace, and envisioned the delicious moment when he caught her.
Perverse in every way, the idea of the innocent woman, so out of her depths, thinking to take something of his made him hard. Merciless as the day was long, he’d meet that affront with an eye for an eye.
And he knew, from the way her breath had hitched when he’d caressed her cheek, she’d be hot for him. There’d be no taking. Miss Wallace would happily spread her legs and give him what he wanted.
Wingrave would find her, and quickly.
On a silent tread, he continued along the eastern corridor. Nor was it a gamble on his part.
He’d ordered the servants who’d escorted her to her rooms to do so along a specific route.
